


Welcome Home

by blackgoldmentality



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:34:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackgoldmentality/pseuds/blackgoldmentality
Summary: Slav came to me from an alternate reality, and told me this is how the original script for season seven had the Adashi reunion written.





	Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this out of spite.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the original _Voltron: Legendary Defender_ characters ~~because if I did I _promise_ you that mess wouldn't have happened~~. I only own my interpretation and usage of this plot, and whatever miscellaneous characters I may add.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

The pit of his stomach is churning horribly. He tries his hardest to ignore it as they all pack themselves into the cargo bay of the repurposed Galra Fighter. Not just for himself, but for the others around him. The most he is willing to show of the cracks in his heart is biting down on his bottom lip, which he hopes the others will see as a result of the Galra Fighter taking off from Saturn. They all shift in the menial space, and groans, grunts, gasps and the like fill the air until the motion of their bodies adjusts to that of the Fighter, and they settle in place. One word bangs against his heart, rippling it painfully.

_Home_.

He would be twisting the metal he clutches onto for leverage under his fingertips if he could, if he had the strength, if he had his other arm.

He has been trying to ignore this possibility—this fantasy, this horror—for quite some time. His attempts to bury it deep within, in a box of locks and passwords and facial recognition, where his mind cannot feel it, are finally failing him more than he wanted. One second of thought is the only luxury he has allowed himself to have, but now that one second turns to ten, ten to one-hundred, one-hundred to one-thousand…

He feels it physically with the weight of the simple platinum band hidden in his suit, hanging from his neck; at the very least, his clone body had enough of his consciousness to understand the importance of it. A part of him wonders if it was one of the ways in which the clone’s sanity looked convincingly enough like his own. The promise ring burns like hot nickel against his collarbone.

_What if… what if..._ A demon claws against the box; the ring sits on one of its malicious fingers, the gold-spun chain broken.

His breath is shaky and his knees are weak. No, they are not from the movement of the Fighter as it heads to the blue marble of a planet that is— _devastated_ , the thought intrudes. Destroyed, war-torn, mutilated.

_Ash_.

He shakes his head, eyes wide shut, teeth grinding.

_No, no… things may be bad… but not like that—not like that_ —

_They’re dead. They’re dead. He’s dead. He’s dead._

_No… no!_

“Shiro… are you okay?”

He snaps back into the former leader they all know at the concern one of his team members—one of the cadets, one of the children—shows for him. The young man has the distress and anxiety he has been trying to hide, written all over his face and seeping into his body language. His back originally turned to the group, he twists his upper body to look at him; there are deep-set lines under his eyes; his eyebrows are sweaty and furrowed; his fists are clenched and firmly pressed against the wall in front of him—it is obvious that he wishes he could bang that very wall to let all his emotions out, but has not done so in order to not mix more negativity into the atmosphere. The child is holding himself back, just like him.

“I’m...” He pauses briefly; he wants to mean what he says, but he does not want to lie—yet, he wants to help the displaced children with him. Currently in that cargo bay are a trio of aliens who, quite honestly, have little to nothing at-risk; and a trio of children who were thrust into that very adult and heavy situation without warning, now about to face ramifications that could very well scare them should what they discover to be— _annihilation_.

What is the best course of action in a delicate situation such as this? What ought he to tell them? Their superior? The one whom they have all looked up to for some time now? The one whose maturity is to help guide them? The one who… should not be on the verge of crumbling as he is?

He can hardly speak, for he fears of what he may say.

“I’m… concerned over the safety of everyone on Earth,” the truth, “but also hopeful, and looking towards what we can do to help them.” A lie. “Thank you, Lance, for asking.” He does not know what that is.

In response the young boy does not smile in comfort, but he knows from his behavior in the past that it is not because he is not attempting to; it is simply because the gravity of the situation makes reality too stifling for him to pretend for even a brief second that he is not deeply affected by the thought that the family he cares for so deeply could be in danger. That shackles him from being the confident and caring person he has always projected himself to be. He, as their former leader, understands that more than them all, and so lets the silence ring as the boy turns back to place his forehead against the wall.

He decides to turn away from the group as well; a deep frown mars his façade.

.

.

_“Takashi, how important am I to you?”_

.

.

_More than I’ve ever shown…_

.

.

Their landing is rougher than wanted, but they all manage to carry their bodies out of the Fighter and step for the first time in… such a very, very long while, onto earthen soil—some of them, in truth, as for others it is their first time doing so, period. Sand is kicked up into their faces, and so for a moment they shield themselves as the dust settles around them. Then, they see it.

He remembers, based on the rock patterns of the location they now stand on, that to their south a sprawling city could be viewed. Said city functioned as the main domestic support for the Garrison, as many of the people who regularly worked and attended it lived there, making the commute daily if they did not have lodging on the property itself.

Now he sees ruins; crumbling infrastructure; a massive Galra footprint.

He immediately looks to the faces of his team, seeing pure horror and mixes of anger on them. Teeth bared, hands over mouth, hands in hair, tears welling up. He wants to turn to them all and give some words of encouragement, but he does not; there is nothing he can say to erase this image of their homes from their heads now. Perhaps if they had only been able to land at the Garrison, this could have been avoided. In the illusion of a fortified militaristic institution, this reality could have been staved off just enough to better mentally prepare themselves for it.

“Let’s get walking…” The grouchy voice of the one he helped to raise leads them on as he takes the first step towards the ruined city. He does not sound none-to-pleased to be doing so either, likely feeling a torrent of emotions. Then follows the second, third, the trio of aliens, and the fourth… the fourth remains by him near the Fighter, sniffling.

“Is my… i-is my family okay?” He manages to wheeze out.

“Hunk, I know that—”

“They’re o-okay, right— _right_?” He looks up to him, eyes pleading; begging; desiring in that moment not the truth, but something good. Anything good.

The sheer rawness and desperateness of it all overwhelms him for but a moment; he then gives the young man what he wants. “They’re okay, Hunk, they’re okay. The city may be destroyed, but in situations like these there are always survivors. Your family raised you, and so they are just as if not more adaptable than you. They’re okay, they’re okay.” _I can’t promise you that..._

“Right… right…”

His puts his arm on his back, and moves his forward with him as they slowly go along with the team. He does not push him to walk faster, offering him this time to fortify his mind and heart, and prepare.

.

.

_“I know I can’t stop you… but I won’t go through this again. So if you decide to go, don’t expect me to be here when you get back.”_

.

.

_No, please—please be there when I get back. Please. Please._

.

.

His legs feel as though they have been replaced with cement blocks that get heavier with each taken step. Sand digs itself deep into the collar of his suit, the heat making him sweat worse than wanted, and as the shrinking distance to the city makes it more detailed and layered, the fear becomes almost crippling.

He cannot keep his thoughts at bay for much longer. They creep up from the dredges of his mind and make their presence known—carrying with them every memory he is now starting to wish had been wiped from him.

The argument.

His decision to leave.

The fight.

The move-out.

The failed reconciliation.

The bitterness.

The anger.

The moment he began to think that perhaps it would be better if he did not return from the Kerberos mission, as that would mean he did not have to see him again.

That one—those thoughts—make him bleed the most harshly.

Here he is now on the other end of that; here he is now, the one agonizing over the fate of his partner; had he really wished this upon him at some point? This is something that no one should experience. Goodness… gosh… what had he done? Why had he not seen things then as he does now? How could he… _How could I leave? Why did I leave? Why didn’t I just stay with him?_

What had he gained from leaving?

How does it compare to what he has lost?

His arm, his sanity, his livelihood, his love…

The sand leaves his eyes too dry to shed a tear.

“Hey… hey! In the distance! I can see something!”

“You mean aside from—”

“It looks like vehicles! I think… I think they belong to the Garrison!”

Squinting his eyes, he begins to see them as well; the white of the Garrison vehicles shines brightly with the sun’s reflection. His desiring side wants to think of this as their saving grace, but the cautious and rational side of him that is still aware of the fact that they are currently exposed in enemy territory, is the face that his consciousness decides would be best to put on.

“Everyone hold your positions,” he orders them all, “we don’t know if they’re being driven by people from the Garrison, or have been salvaged by Galra.” He dislikes to have to be the one to coat this hope in potential regret, but he recognizes the duty of it.

“Should we get our weapons out?”

“No. If we strike first, they could respond by attacking us from afar—and if they _are_ from the Garrison, we could end up hurting them. Wait, just wait.”

The vehicles are the standard all-terrain type that the Garrison uses both in and outside of its base to transport people and goods. There are two of them, and do not appear to be equipped with anything more than the artillery it is premade with. As they get closer, he considers himself ready for the worst.

Then they stop, and the doors open.

“Takashi!”

He freezes.

Time stops as something crashes into his body, wraps itself around him, and smells—and looks—and _is_ so, so familiar… and so real.

“I… I never thought—I never thought I’d—!”

“A… A… Adam…”

Adam pulls back from him just enough to make eye-contact, exposing his tear-stained face with droplets hiding behind his glasses. There is pain in his dark brown eyes, his mouth a mess of emotions, but he is there—he is there looking at him, against him, breathing, talking, crying, existing.

_Alive_.

“Adam!”

He allows himself to dissolve into Adam as he embraces him the best that he can with one arm, finally letting himself break as his relief flows into the outside world. He buries his head into Adam’s neck, feeling his hair tickle him, still unbelieving. _He’s alive… he’s alive… he’s alive! _He is shaking.

The demon disperses.

.

.

Arriving at the Garrison, they split into groups as they are escorted to separate accommodations; they are to get comfortable first, and then will reconvene at a full debriefing scheduled later on.

He goes with Adam to their old home.

Whilst in the past Adam was never one for public displays of affection, now, guiding him to a place that just minutes ago felt to him like nothing but a memory, their fingers are interlaced. He cannot help himself as he keeps rubbing his thumb against his partner’s, wanting to feel every bit of him that he can as though to continuously prove to him that this is neither illusion nor fantasy nor a clone. This is Adam, his Adam.

It is as the apartment door is unlocked that he realizes the discrepancy in this all. “You… how do you still have a key to get in? You said you’d turned it in the day you—” He cannot finish. He does not want to discuss such dark moments during this bright one.

“I wasn’t able to return the key,” Adam begins as he opens the door and steps aside to let him in, “and when…” He pauses to breathe heavily; Shiro can feel the painful memories himself. “When I heard what had happened to you and your crew, I used it come here every day and cry… The first day, I couldn’t believe that you had left everything as when I’d left, so I took it upon myself to make sure that, if you ever came back, you’d be able to experience the same…” As Adam’s voice drift, his pitch rises and his words get watery. He sniffles, taking off his glasses to wipe at tears that had not yet fallen.

“Takashi, I—”

“I’m so sorry, Adam,” he interrupts, feeling that out of both of them, he is the one with the most to apologize for. “I should’ve listened to you and never left—you don’t understand how much I regret that day; you don’t know how much I thought of you while I was out there; you don’t know how often you were the only thing keeping me alive! Wishing, hoping, wanting to see you again— _god_ , when I heard what had happened to Earth,” his voice chokes up but he pushes himself on, “when I _thought_ of what could have happened to you…!” He cannot finish, as everything is too much.

All lets go of all that he had tried to hide and ignore, more so than earlier when he had seen his partner’s face again. He nearly collapses to the floor, but Adam keeps him standing, hugging him and pulling them together, acting as his stability.

He keeps repeating his sorrow and remorse, over and over and over, yelling them as loudly as he can—the box breaking. Adam tries to soothe him, telling him that everything is okay— _will_ be okay—but he cannot fully accept that. He cannot simply walk forward to the future without fully acknowledging the past. Adam understands this, and kisses every part of his face, replying between with, “I know… I know…”

His confession is only stopped by Adam’s lips on his in a comforting, needed kiss. _Welcome home, Takashi, welcome home…_

When they let go of one another, they press their foreheads to remain as close as they can possibly be. Their breaths mingle; he is certain their hearts in-sync.

“I missed you so much…”

“I know…”

“I—I can’t believe I ever left…”

“I can…”

“What?!” He starts to panic, thinking this will lead into an argument; Adam puts his hands on his face, staring at him both seriously and adoringly as he explains himself.

“You wanted one last adventure, didn’t you, before your body grounded you permanently? Even back then I understood that, but still… selfishly wanted you with me, and pushed against it. Takashi, I didn’t want you to leave because I was scared of the little time we’d have left together—which would be even _less_ if you spent years up in space… Even as much as I knew how much that mission meant to you—and a part of me did want you to go—I just… I couldn’t risk not being able to see you every morning when I wake-up. I couldn’t risk not being able to make you breakfast; not being able to see you teaching your classes; not being able to know that at the end of the day, every day, I’d be able to come home to you. I just…”

“It was bad enough you’d probably be bedridden soon after that—I thought I could handle that so long as, the days leading up to it, we’d be together. So when… when you said you were going to do _another_ mission, and one with a timestamp so close to when you’d just… stop… being able to live your life, I… I…”

“I know why you left, but all I care about right now is that you’ve come home—and that, if you want, you can stay here with me… at least for now…”

Adam has also been so observant and understanding, there is no wonder to him acknowledging not only the reasons why he had left, but why he may have to potentially do so again. Whilst no longer a Paladin, he must help to support Voltron in any way that he can. Even if that means going out into space with them once more, in battle.

As much as he wants to, he cannot promise that will never leave again.

However,

“Of course I’ll stay with you here, Adam, of course—and, I hope that… you’ll at least be relieved to know that I’m not sick anymore, so even when I have to leave, we will always have more than enough time to share when.”

“What?” Adam softly asks him.

He turns his head to gesture at his lost arm. “During my time fighting in space, my body went through… a couple of changes—” Baby steps, baby steps, “—and it’s been cured. The technology of the passive alien species I’ve met has confirmed this. I’m expected to live a regular life…”

There are no words to describe the expressions Adam’s face takes upon hearing this, as he is driven to once again kiss him—a brief peck, before hugging him even more harshly than before, in relieved disbelief.

“I’m so happy…” Shiro can hear him mumble. His heart soars.

Some moment pass before Adam dries his warm tears with a content smile on his face. “If it makes you feel better—about your arm, that is,” he moves a few steps back and then bends down to lift the pants of his left leg, thus exposing the technology that it actually is, “I lost my leg about three years ago when the Galra first attacked.”

“How?” His concern is waved away by Adam’s comforting voice.

“That day, I was a part of the flight crew that initially responded. My plane was shot down, but... I managed to evacuate it. I ended up landing in a cavern, and had to survive on my own for several weeks before I was able to contact the Garrison and get a rescue party to come for me. My leg had taken a lot of damage from the flying shrapnel when my plane exploded, and so by the time they found me there was no saving it.” He fixes his pants.

“I can make you a new arm—something that… matches my prosthetic.”

He responds with a heartwarming smile. “I’d like that.” He steps forward, and takes Adam’s hand; Adam places the other over theirs. “Adam, thank you so much…”

“I love you.”

With one finger, Adam reaches into the collar of his suit, and pulls out the chain that holds the symbol of their love which had been partially exposed around his neck. The ring, engraved with their names on the side, dazzles in the light. It matches the one on the very hand he holds it with.

“I know. I love you, too, Takashi.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon.
> 
> Feel free to interact with me on Tumblr ([@blackgoldmentality](https://blackgoldmentality.tumblr.com/)) and share your gripes. I'm pro "season seven was a fever dream."


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